


To Enjoy By Rage and War

by Fickle_Obsessions



Series: Sweet Baby, I Need Fresh Blood [10]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 10:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10965498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: Hamilton wants to go to war. Washington does not. They argue their points in a unique way.





	To Enjoy By Rage and War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wellreadfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellreadfan/gifts).



> This is for wellreadfan, who is as patient and encouraging a reader as one could ever hope to have.
> 
> Title is based on a Shakespeare quote (Richard II):   
> _Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap,_  
>  The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,  
> The other to enjoy by rage and war.

Hamilton accuses Washington often of wanting him to be a docile pet, a dog that came whenever called. Though he finds it irksome, Washington always allows the insult to glance off of him. He knows very well what it was he wanted when he chose Hamilton and if it had been canine-like sense of loyalty and obedience he would have been a fool. Particularly when Hamilton is vain as a cat and shares the feline tendency to watch people silently no matter how uncomfortable it might make the object of his regard. Washington never ceases to find it unnerving to have some creature, cat or vampire, enter a room only to immediately find some comfortable perch from which to observe, blinking slowly, until he is satisfied enough to turn away toward his own pursuits. A final similarity between Hamilton and cats (though, if pressed, Washington believes he could think of others, such as a habit of dainty eating) and that is Hamilton’s tendency to lash out suddenly, often without any clear reason why. Though there are times when the reason is abundantly clear, as it has been as of late. 

Hamilton wants to go to war. Washington does not. 

Washington doesn’t deny that he has played the role of a civilian for far too long. The past few years have been a bit short on excitement. London is full of easy targets: rich and reckless lushes who somehow cannot conceive of a handsome face wishing them grievous harm. Dabbling in a little warfare would no doubt make for a livelier time and bring them some stronger, more interesting victims -- proper men with tall straight backs and hard hands, but young and supple necks -- but it is simply too soon. Hamilton is too young, too new, too short and slight and easily mistaken for an easy target. 

Hamilton disagrees, which hardly surprises Washington, and every night for weeks his fledgling has made his displeasure perfectly clear. 

Tonight, Hamilton first demonstrates that he has not yet abandoned his hope to go to war by promptly leaving the manor shortly after sunset. He disappears without a word to anyone as to what direction he will be traveling or when he will return. 

Washington hunts on his own, feeds, and returns to an empty drawing room well after midnight. He reads by the fire, his hand reflexively tapping his knee in helpless annoyance as the minutes pass one by one. In the distance the clock tower strikes two long-reverberating, unhurried bells, Washington listens to them with a frown pulling the corners of his mouth. He is beginning to anticipate the bells sounding three o'clock when Hamilton finally appears. 

Washington does his best to ignore Hamilton’s arrival, and Hamilton does his best to make it nearly impossible to ignore him. He closes the door loudly, unbuckles his sword from his belt and tosses it with a clatter upon a table, daring Washington to chide him for being careless with both the weapon and the furniture. Next Hamilton throws himself onto a chair with a sigh and begins to pluck at the buttons of his jerkin. Resolutely, Washington reads until he has finished his passage in his book. 

When he looks as he closes his book, he finds Hamilton acting as if he has not yet noticed there is anywhere else in the room. Finding this to be utterly childish, Washington loses the first battle by sighing in irritation. 

As he’s already conceded defeat in making the first acknowledgement, Washington surrenders even more ground. “Where have you been?” 

Hamilton at least does Washington the courtesy of not feigning surprise at his voice. He looks over, smug about having won their first, minor tussle of the night. “Here and there,” he answers.

There are several options laid out before Washington now: he can lose his temper, try to best Hamilton in a battle of quips, or he can to wait out Hamilton’s impatience in silence. Not being one to choose fights he can’t win, Washington chooses silence, returning to his book. 

Hamilton does his level best not to rise to the challenge while Washington reads another three or four pages, and he is not a particularly fast reader. He’d be content to read on; a century on earth will certainly teach one the meaning of patience, but Hamilton has not yet learned how often a wait-and-see strategy will yield a better result than an all out attack. He risks a blind volley in the dark. 

"I spoke to a man tonight who was recently returned from Scotland," Hamilton says.

Washington does not acknowledge this bait, and turns his page. 

“Queen Mary’s supporters are not at all soothed by the murder of Moray. This man I met predicted more clashes, more sieges, and soon.” 

After an appropriately long moment, Washington responds with a short, “Hm.”

His bait not taken, Hamilton stews for a time. Washington imagines he is sorting through his well stocked armory of barbs and insults. He resolves not to be fazed in the slightest by whatever Hamilton lobs at him. 

“He is returning to Scotland in a fortnight, this fellow,” Hamilton says, finally. Washington waits. “And he offered me a place among his retinue.” 

The book in Washington’s hands is slammed shut and set aside before he even realizes what he was doing. Washington considers himself to be a reasonable man, but while he might excuse cheekiness and he certainly will not endure disrespect. As he pushes himself out of his seat, he sees Hamilton smiling at him, teeth glinting in the firelight. 

It gives Washington the slightest of pauses, a pull back on the reins just enough that he does not storm across the room in a rage, but stalks calmly over. “Tell me more about this man you met,” Washington asks, not hiding his sneer. Hamilton’s eyes narrow at the unexpected question. No doubt he had expected to be trying to wriggling out of Washington’s grasp. 

Liking the hesitation, Washington presses it. “Was he an ordinary man? A mortal?” 

Hamilton nods warily. “Handsome?”

There’s a glint in Hamilton’s eye that all but assures that he is lying when he agrees with Washington. “Handsome enough.” 

Washington is quite close to Hamilton, within arm’s reach and with each step the pull of the tension grows. “What did you think when he asked you to go away? Did you think that you would let him have you? That you would make him yours?”

He watches Hamilton’s warring impulses gain and lose ground across Hamilton’s face. A wry smile of wanting to say yes, to rub in Washington’s face that he could say just that at any time to anyone, a raise of his brows in fear at the thought of whether such a blow could be taken back. The struggle is mirrored inside of Washington, a part of him hopes Hamilton to will dare to disrespect him further, part of him hopes that Hamilton will give up the game entirely, confess the lie that he ever for a moment considered leaving Washington. 

So of course, Hamilton does neither. Struck at the last moment by inspiration, Hamilton wonders as if it were just an idle thought, “What would you have done if I had?” 

It’s a question that should be easy to answer. After all, it’s been answered many times before, by all the boys who have come and gone before Hamilton. Washington had let them all go, had left them all behind. Why should Hamilton be any different? Yet Washington’s lips and tongue still will not form the words, because the honest answer is that he would have hunted Hamilton down. Anything less would have felt like a defeat. 

Sharp-eyed as ever, Hamilton notices the hesitation. His mouth twists wryly in victory, and Washington’s patience finally runs out. Hamilton’s hair is long and dark, and is habitually worn loose: a vulnerability. Washington sinks a hand into the thick locks, and makes a tight fist. Hamilton hisses as Washington tugs him close enough to whisper in his ear. 

“You came back to me, Alex. Don’t forget that. I never lock the doors, I never insist.” 

Hamilton does not contradict him but does try to pull away. A foolish thing to do when Washington’s hand is wrapped in his hair. He doesn’t move an inch. 

“And yet you always come back. Why is that?” 

Like Washington, Hamilton either will not speak the truth, or does not know it. To cover for his inability to answer, Hamilton lashes out, reaching up to giving Washington’s own hair a savage tug. 

They end up as they so often do locked in a battle of wills. Hamilton will not submit to be held down, but he is not strong enough either to break Washington’s hold. So Hamilton pushes whenever Washington pulls, bites and wiggles half free only to be caught again. 

Through it all Washington keeps seeing flashes of Hamilton’s smile glinting in the firelight. Every time Washington grunts at the impact of Hamilton’s elbow or has to lift his hips to avoid getting a knee dug into his groin, Hamilton looks delighted. In short order Washington’s hair is in disarray, and his jacket torn, all to Hamilton’s apparent glee. Frustrated, Washington tries a final time to pin Hamilton to the floor, only have a table behind them get kicked and tip over. The very fine vase that had been sitting upon it shatters, sending shards skittering across the floor. 

For a moment they are both still, Hamilton looking up at him in shock, then another one of Hamilton’s wicked smiles appears on his lips. Hamilton throws his head back and laughs. 

With that, Washington decides that he has had just about enough. Hamilton’s laughter has made him go limp beneath Washington, too lost in his mirth to notice Washington shift his hold. Hamilton yelps in surprise as he is quite suddenly picked up and thrown onto his stomach. He scrabbles to get up on his hands and knees, but Washington gets one of Hamilton’s arms pinned behind his back, and with his other hand pulls Hamilton’s breeches down. 

Hamilton doesn’t stop protesting, precisely, he still squirms and grunts and makes Washington push his wrist up along to make the hold on it crueler, but at the first touch of Washington’s tongue to his backside he becomes far easier to control. His feet still slip uselessly on the rug but Hamilton seems well aware that doing anything more would dislodge Washington from drawing circles with the tip of his tongue that make Hamilton shiver.

Washington knows from experience that it won’t do to rush. If there’s a brief break in sensation, Hamilton might suddenly remember that he had intended not to make this easy for him. So Washington doesn’t let up for a moment, teasing Hamilton with his tongue, filling him with his fingers, and driving him mad with just the softest passes over the erection hanging down between his spread thighs. He does his job well, and somehow it comes as a surprise to Alex to have his hips hauled up and held tight against Washington’s as he deals with his own trousers. 

It’s a good bit of luck that Washington is able to sheath himself with just a few rough shoves without having to give up his hold on the back of Hamilton’s neck. Face against the carpet, Hamilton grunts as Washington enters him, but in no time at all he is sighing. At first Washington is gratified, but soon enough he becomes aware of an undercurrent of mirth, little huffs of laughter that Hamilton tries to hide under his panting breath. 

There is still some joke, Washington realizes, that he does not yet understand. He gives a harder shove of his hips as punishment, as rebuke. Hamilton sucks in a breath sharply but lets it out in a long happy moan. Hamilton it seems is still getting precisely what he wants, enjoying every moment of his indecency. He may be pinned to the floor, but Washington is right there with him in a ripped jacket, and a priceless vase shattered on the floor around them. In an instant it suddenly becomes plain. There will be no peace. Hamilton will go to war or he will exhaust every bit of Washington’s attention, and either way Hamilton wins. 

Unfortunately knowing this does not make it any easier to see a way out. Time again the boy has led him here, and he has followed. Washington at last begins to suspect that he has been soundly beaten, and it’s _infuriating._ In desperation he tries to think of even one thing that will allow him to save his pride. 

Soon enough a thought does occur. Washington withdraws suddenly, and Hamilton makes a curious, unhappy noise just before Washington flips him over roughly onto his back. Before Hamilton can do much more to react, Washington has his hands pinned over his head and is thrusting into him again with all the anger and adoration that Hamilton has so greedily sought to get from him. 

For a moment, Hamilton has the gall to look smugly up at him, lips curled upwards at the corners, and eyes heavy lidded in contended victory, but Washington has not played his final hand. He leans down and without any warning sinks his teeth into Hamilton’s throat. 

Hamilton's cries out, more startled than in pain, but he keeps his head and does not to struggle against Washington’s bite. Washington holds Hamilton’s flesh between his teeth until he is satisfied that Hamilton is reminded of the truth. He is Washington’s, Washington made him. His blood, his strength, his immortality all belong to Washington. 

He expects resentment, expects Hamilton to go cold and still beneath him, but instead Hamilton whimpers and shakes as his hips rise up to meet Washington’s punishing pace. Washington has just enough time to recognize how close Hamilton is to his climax, before Hamilton is over the edge of, spilling onto his stomach with a shout. Washington lets the satisfaction of Hamilton’s surrender -- in this at the very least -- wash over him at the same time he finally takes his first long drink of Hamilton’s rich, dark, inhuman blood. He buries himself into Hamilton and finds his release lost in the reverie of what Hamilton was, what Washington made him. 

For quite a while they both lie useless upon the ruined carpet. Hamilton is not quite affectionate but he allows Washington at least to rest a hand upon his hip. The fire in the hearth burns down into dim embers, but Washington does not need much light to look at Hamilton’s profile, his glittering dark eyes. 

If Washington does nothing more than gather them both up and take them to bed, this will begin again tomorrow night. Washington understands at last that he could no more put a stop to this pattern than he could look away from Hamilton’s fierce beauty. 

To hell with it he thinks, and speaks. “We will go to Scotland.” 

Hamilton finally looks at him, eyes wide and startled before a lovely, rare smile appears on his face. He is so pleased he practically glows. “Truly?” He sits up excitedly. “When?” 

“As soon as possible,” Washington grouses, sitting up as well. “I need the rest.” 

Hamilton blinks at him, “You find battlefields restful?” 

“No,” Washington answers as he stands. He offers Hamilton his hand, and pulls the boy up to his feet. “But cannons have been known to run out of munition, unlike you.”


End file.
